


Reasons Not To Fall

by under_my_blue_umbrella



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Aramis (mentioned) - Freeform, Friendship, Fête des Mousquetaires Challenge, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26715865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_my_blue_umbrella/pseuds/under_my_blue_umbrella
Summary: Under English siege, in a war camp at night, d'Artagnan feels battle-weary and alone. Luckily, he isn't.My September 2020 entry for the "Fête des Mousquetaires" challenge on FFnet.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	Reasons Not To Fall

**Author's Note:**

> To read and vote for this month's entries, go to: https://www.fanfiction.net/topic/187872/182055417/1/Fall-Sept-1-thru-Sept-30
> 
> This one's not as polished as I'd like it to be, but at least I made the deadline!
> 
> Also, never mind any historical accuracy. Theoretically, this could be a scene that happened during the English siege on Isle de Ré, but practically I have no idea. Je suis désolée.

Wearily, d’Artagnan kicked a smoldering log back into the fire with the tip of his boot. He wrapped his cloak - damp and dirty as it was - closer around his shoulders and stared morosely into the small campfire he’d kindled to life. It was one of several flickering between the rows of tents, chasing away some of the darkness the late October night was casting over the camp. Figures huddled around the timid flames, their musketeer uniforms as stiff with mud as his own, their armour as dented, hats only reluctantly drying after another day soaked in rain and blood.

Today’s battle had been vicious. Both armies - the English and the French - had clashed with desperate force. Both wanted this godforsaken siege to end, to leave this bloody island after weeks of stalemate. But it wasn’t over yet. 

The French had taken heavy losses, and the musketeer regiment now camped close to the beach had buried three fallen brothers today - Rémy, Fabien, Christian. Their faces hovered in d’Artagnan’s memory like ghosts, but he was too tired and too worn out to mourn them. Death had become the rule rather than the exception, and each comrade lying dead in the mud was a bit less shocking, leaving d’Artagnan a bit more hollow every time.

From the captain’s tent behind him, he heard a soft moan. Athos was inside, feverish from an inflamed wound and trying to sleep it off. D’Artagnan rose, muscles aching, and quietly stuck his head into the tent to peer into the semi-darkness. He could see Athos’ figure shifting on the uncomfortable cot, the bandage on his arm white in the moonlight that was drifting inside.

“Athos?” D’Artagnan whispered, approaching, but instead of an answer Athos rolled over, turning his back to him, and stilled again. A moment later, deep breaths confirmed that he was asleep. The woolen blanket had slipped down to his waist, and, soundlessly and gently, d’Artagnan pulled it back up over his shoulder. Athos didn’t stir. Worried, d’Artagnan touched his hand to the slumbering man’s sweaty forehead. Warmer than it should be, but not as hot as feared. Exhaustion, then. Not a high fever.

He wasn’t surprised. They were all worn out, tired and hungry, many of them carrying minor wounds. But Athos had led them through a brutal battle today with unwavering bravery, the first to throw himself at the enemy’s spears and cannons, one arm all but useless to begin with, and d’Artagnan hadn’t seen him rest in days. No wonder he was out like a light. 

Not for the first time, d’Artagnan wished Aramis was here. The regiment’s surgeon, Docteur Molet, had seen to Athos’ arm, but with so many men wounded or sick and no means of getting them out of this godforsaken place, the doctor’s capacities and his supplies were stretched thin. They barely had enough time or manpower to bury their dead, and the screams from the medical tent told d’Artagnan that, after running out of laudanum a week ago, they had now also run out of wine.

Not that Aramis could have worked miracles. But with his arsenal of herbal tonics and vile-smelling poultices he could have eased some of the suffering, and with his steadfast faith, he could have infused a bit of hope into a hopeless situation. But Aramis wasn’t here. He was safe at the monastery of Douai - or so d’Artagnan assumed, not having heard from his brother in two years. Sadness and anger stirred in d’Artagnan. Unlike Porthos, he had understood the marksman’s reasons for leaving the Musketeers. A vow was a vow, and it was sacred. In the meantime, they had learned to live without Aramis, but tonight, with Athos struggling and Porthos off somewhere on a reconnaissance mission, he felt alone and couldn’t help thinking that Aramis had conveniently abandoned them at a time when they would have needed him most.

As quietly as he’d entered, d’Artagnan left Athos’ tent and sat back down outside by the fire, cursing when he almost slipped on the muddy ground. The flames had almost died down, and he hurried to rekindle them with a bit of poking and a few more twigs from his meagre stockpile. Around him, the camp was slowly falling quiet except for the occasional whimper of pain from the medical tent. From somewhere off to his left, fragments of a folk song drifted to his ear, sung in a voice that sounded too young and too old at the same time. The men were huddling into their blankets or retreating to their tents, if they were privileged enough to have one. Sleep was their one escape from this nightmare, and most of the soldiers were exhausted enough to drop into dreamless oblivion as soon as they closed their eyes. 

D’Artagnan wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not until there was word from Porthos. The big musketeer, on Athos’ command, had left at dusk to try and find an unpatrolled stretch in the Englishmen’s line of siege. He’d been accompanied by René, a gifted horseman and one of the few men still fit enough for a hard ride. They needed to get a message through to the other side, to Tréville. They needed reinforcements. Supplies. A _decision_ from the King. If Porthos and René didn’t come back, they’d either broken through and were on their way to Paris, or… 

D’Artagnan didn’t dare to finish the thought. Porthos _wouldn’t_ die. His name would _not_ appear on the ever-growing list of the fallen. Not Porthos, whose physical strength never seemed to wane and whose heart was as big and strong as his body, inhabited by a soul as innocent as a child’s. Since Aramis had left them, that soul had darkened for a while, but war had reforged the _Inseparables_ into a trio of steel, and the need to have their backs had given Porthos purpose. Neither Athos nor d’Artagnan would have survived without the big fighter’s physical and moral support, and, in turn, it was what had kept Porthos alive.

Until now.

A bird cawed somewhere off in the trees and pulled d’Artagnan from his thoughts. As if in response, the horses whinnied nervously in the makeshift corral of the camp. Then a twig snapped in the darkness. 

D’Artagnan saw a few men sit up, reaching for their pistols. Alarmed, he pulled his from his belt as well. There were a lot of animals roaming the forest at night - foxes, badgers, boars and even the occasional wildcat. They seemed to be drawn to the smell of blood rising from the battlefields. So far, the English had not dared attack them at night, but they’d sent snipers a few times, picking men off in their sleep, those _bastards_. D’Artagnan stared into the darkness beyond the tent and shucked his cloak off, ready to rise and return fire.

A figure came into view, stepping out of the treeline without caution and leading a horse by its slackened reins. A large figure.

“Put yo’ pistols away, ya fools,” the man grumbled at the men who’d trained their weapons in his direction. “‘s jus’ me. Ya can all go back to sleep.” 

“Porthos!”

D’Artagnan was up and slinging his arms around his friend in a second. Porthos felt as solid as ever, smelling of horse and dirt and gunpowder residue. The big man returned the hug with a rib-squashing squeeze. They held each other like that for a few breaths before letting go.

“What happened?” D’Artagnan inquired, looking Porthos up and down and relieved when seeing no injuries. “You couldn’t break through? And where’s René?” 

The absence of their fellow musketeer wasn’t a good sign, and d’Artagnan’s heart sank immediately, but then Porthos’ teeth flashed white in his dark, dirty face, and he grinned.

“René got through,” he reported proudly, tying his horse to a tentpole and shoving a bucket of water under its snout. “Managed ta find an unguarded spot in their line. Not fo’ long, o’ course. Started shootin’ at us when they noticed. I kept ‘em busy until René had slipped through. They didn’ like that.” 

He issued a rumbling laugh. But when he unbuckled his horse’s saddle and lifted it off its back, giving the animal an affectionate pat, d’Artagnan saw Porthos wince, and the laughter ended in a rueful hiss.

“Are you injured?” D’Artagnan stepped in worriedly to help with the saddle.

“Nah.” Porthos shook his head and relit his grin. “‘s nothin’. Got in a bit of a scuffle wi’ one of ‘em bastards. Bruised me ribs. ‘E got it worse, though, crawlin’ off with a broken nose. An’ I s’pose I dislocated ‘is shoulder. Not that I feel sorry ‘bout it!” 

He laughed again, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but smirk. The camp, so dark and depressing only minutes ago, seemed a warmer place with Porthos back. The men around them had stored their pistols away again and, after giving their returned brother quick smiles and salutes, had gone back to sleep. Even the medical tent lay quiet now. 

“So you think René will make it to Paris? By himself?”

D’Artagnan was burning to get the full story out of Porthos, but the big musketeer had plopped down by the fire and was taking deep gulps from a waterskin before deigning to reply.

“Yeah, he’ll make it through. Rides like the devil, that one. Smart, too. With any luck, he’ll be poundin’ on Tréville’s door tomorrow night. An’ the Cap’n will bite the King’s head off he doesn’ get us outta here.”

Tréville was Minister of War now, and no longer their captain, but they still slipped and referred to him that way, even Athos who’d taken his rank. Some things weren’t a question of title. 

“But why did you come back?” D’Artagnan repeated the question. “Why didn’t you go after René?”

“‘E’s too fast, an’ I’m too heavy to keep up. Didn’ wanna kill tha’ poor ‘orse tryin’. An’ them English needed a bit o’ _entertainment_ so René could get away.” Porthos bellowed another laugh, bracing his smarting ribs. “Mos’ important of all, I couldn’ leave ya alone, could I?”

The big man caught d’Artagnan’s eyes, and something very serious flickered behind the merriment he was displaying. 

“Who knows what you an’ the other fool ‘d be up to withou’ me.” He pointed at the tent. “How is ‘e?”

D’Artagnan grimaced. “Sleeping.”

“Fever?”

“Yes, but not much. Molet said he’ll be fine with some rest.”

Porthos grunted in acknowledgement. Then he shook his head. 

“I wish Aramis was ‘ere.”

D’Artagnan looked up, startled. This was the first time Porthos had mentioned his former best friend in months. They no longer talked about Aramis or about the gap he’d left behind and which, even after all this time, refused to close entirely. _Porthos_ , most of all, didn’t talk about him.

“Me too,” said d’Artagnan, and when he saw Porthos staring into the fire without commenting further on the matter, he added: “I made Athos some of that tea Aramis used to give us for a fever. Still had the herbs in my pouch.”

Porthos nodded. “Good.” 

The brazen cheerfulness of a few moments ago had evaporated, whether it was because of their shared worry about Athos or the mention of Aramis’ name. As if on cue, a soldier sleeping not far from them began to mumble fearfully in his sleep. One of his comrades reached out to shake him and break whatever nightmare he was experiencing. The medical tent, too, had sprung back to life. Someone inside had started to sob, and they heard the soothing voice of Docteur Molet travel through the darkness.

D’Artagnan’s heart clenched with sudden fright. 

“Do you think we’re going to survive this?” The question broke from his mouth before he could hold it back.

Porthos looked at him, taken aback for a moment. Then he put his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder and conspiratorially lowered his head so their foreheads almost touched.

“Lemme tell you somethin’, d’Artagnan” he said with gruff fondness. “Athos, you, me - we’re not gonna fall. Ya know why that is’?”

D’Artagnan’s voice sounded steadier than he felt when he replied. “No.” 

“‘cause Aramis isn’t ‘ere,” Porthos continued gravely. 

Confused, d’Artagnan frowned at him. “What do you…?”

“Las’ time I saw ‘im, I got so mad I swore I’d give ‘im a good thrashin’ when ‘e returns to us some day. I always keep my promises. Means I can’t die before I’ve turned the idiot’s hide. An’ I’ll need you an’ Athos to hold ‘im steady while I do. That’s why.”

Once more, Porthos laughed and released d’Artagnan with a friendly slap to the back of his head. Rubbing at the smarting spot, d’Artagnan shook his head and rolled his eyes, but he did so smiling.

“There ya go, pup.” Porthos hadn’t used that nickname in years, and it used to irk d’Artagnan, but it did the opposite now. “Can’t have ya goin’ all gloomy and doomy on me. Got enough o’ tha’ with that one.” He flicked his head towards the tent where Athos was sleeping.

D’Artagnan’s smile widened. He felt endlessly tired, and in spite of the hope that Tréville would send reinforcements, they’d have to hold out for days until help arrived. Athos was still injured. Their comrades were still dead. Aramis was still missing. There was still a war going on. But Porthos was here, and they were in this together. And they would make it out together. Looking at his older brother now contentedly burrowing into a blanket beside him, d’Artagnan chose to believe that. At least for today.

**Author's Note:**

> My first ficlet that was neither Athos- nor Aramis-centric. Yay me! 
> 
> Also, I've developed a soft spot for Porthos, and I blame it on Monsieur Dumas.


End file.
